


Wherever It May Lead

by monicawoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: Dean's deal is coming due, and Sam's been acting strange. Dean expected his searches for a way to break the deal to become more and more frantic the closer they got to the year mark. But instead, Sam’s worry seems to have morphed into something else entirely—hardened into steely determination. And if he’s found a way out, he sure as fuck hasn’t told Dean.





	Wherever It May Lead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).



> Big thanks to my beta quickreaver!

Dean starts hearing the hellhounds weeks before his time’s up. He tells himself it’s just his imagination, but he knows it’s not. They get closer every day, circling him from a half-mile away, then a quarter, then a few hundred feet.

He hasn’t said a word to Sam, but Sam knows. Dean sees him watching, sensing his fear. It’s strange though; Dean expected Sam to panic. Expected his searches for a way to break the deal to become more and more frantic the closer they got to the year mark.

But instead, Sam’s worry seems to have morphed into something else entirely—hardened into steely determination. And if he’s found a way out, he sure as fuck hasn’t told Dean.

Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s one of those rituals that loses its power if the target knows what’s going on.

Dean tells himself that’s it, and pointedly ignores how often Sam sneaks out in the middle of the night and comes back stinking of sweat and sulfur. He ignores how Sam’s changed physically, how quickly his shoulders have broadened. Maybe he’s been sneaking out to a 24-hour gym at every Podunk town they’ve crashed in, even if the town only has one traffic light and two churches.

He ignores it, up until the night he can’t.

#

Dean trails behind the tacky sports-car Sam got into, follows them, careful to stay far enough back that even Sam won’t know he has a tail. He didn’t take his cell, so Dean can’t trace him that way, but then Dean learned how to follow people before cell phones were even a thing.

They stop at a self-storage lot. Dean watches them get out of the car. Sam, and a dark-haired woman he’s never seen before. They head to a unit in the back and open the gate; mixed in with the rattling of the metal is a muffled scream. They’ve got somebody in there.

Dean parks himself outside and listens, gut churning. This whole thing feels wrong. It doesn’t feel like Sam.

They question their captive, Sam’s voice insistent, but just quiet enough that Dean can’t quite make out the words.

The captive snarls something in response, and then he starts coughing. And Dean’s exorcised enough demons to recognize that particular kind of cough.

Without preamble, Dean busts through the door, just in time to see Sam lower his arm, a look of horrified guilt spreading across his face. The floor beneath the man in the chair is smoldering.

Sam’s surprised to see him; the woman he’s with isn’t. She looks annoyed, in such a familiar way that the gears in Dean’s head click rapidly into place. It might be a different face she’s wearing, but he recognizes her anyway.

“Ruby?” Dean scoffs, glaring at Sam. “You’re palling around with Ruby?”

“Dean, I can explain,” Sam says, hands up, like he thinks he can placate Dean somehow.

The man in the chair groans.

“He needs a doctor, Sam,” Ruby says.

“Go,” Sam says, without ever taking his eyes off of Dean.

Dean doesn’t try to stop her on the way out. He waits for her to leave, lets Sam stew in his guilt for a full minute before asking again, “Ruby?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Dean’s voice echoes off the low cement walls of the storage unit. It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.

“Because she can help.”

“How?“

Sam looks down at the floor, and that’s all the answer Dean needs. It’s something Sam doesn’t want to admit, which means it’s terrible.

“You can’t trust her. You know that! Whatever it is she told you, she’s lying!”

“She’s not lying, Dean.”

“Of course she is! Demons lie.”

“She can’t. Not to me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just you have to trust me, all right?”

Dean shakes his head, rips the door open and leaves, his throat tight with angry tears he refuses to let out.

Instead of going back to their motel, he drives to a bar and drinks himself numb. Or as close to it as he can get these days.

When he gets back to their room four hours later, he pretends not to see Sam’s glassy eyes glinting in the darkness.

#

They don’t talk about it again.

Dean doesn’t have the energy to argue. Not anymore. His deadline hangs around his neck, tightening with its proximity. The hounds are a dozen yards away at most. They’ve quieted, but the sounds of their slavering growls are even worse, somehow.

Sam heads out in the middle of the night more and more often. There’s no need to keep up appearances anymore. One time he doesn’t come back until well after dawn. And even then, there’s not a trace of guilt. Dean glares at him, with as much anger as he can muster after less than half a cup of coffee.

But Sam doesn’t flinch. “I’m not gonna let you let you die,” he says, and he sounds so certain.

It should give Dean hope, not make him even more terrified.

#

One night they trap a demon. It tells them nothing useful, then starts pouring sweat and says, “I don’t know, I don’t know,” over and over until Dean plunges Ruby’s blade into the demon’s throat. When he turns around, Sam’s eyes are pitch-dark. Dean lies to himself, swears it was just a trick of the light.

It wasn’t.

Sam’s on edge afterwards, leaves again as soon as they get back to the motel, says he has something to take care of. Dean doesn’t bother trying to sleep. He’s been hearing the hounds all night, and the growling keeps getting louder.

#

With only hours left on Dean’s contract, they finally get a lead on Lilith: she’s in New Harmony, Indiana.

Ruby meets them there, much to Dean’s chagrin, but Sam insists she’s there to help. Dean doesn’t tell him what Ruby looks like beneath her borrowed skin—sunken empty pits for eyes, a decaying face with a mouthful of wicked teeth.

The cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood is far too quiet, and the house where Lilith’s holed up stinks of death. The family is seated around the dining room table, all of them dead. The little girl died clutching a fork, and her mouth is covered in blood.

A chill settles in Dean’s spine; he pushes it away, accepts that they’re too late and readies to salt and burn the bodies. And that’s when Ruby’s old body—the blonde one—comes sauntering through the door. Only it’s not Ruby. The thing inside looks a thousand times worse than Ruby, and it pulses with power—malevolent and ancient.

She shoves past Dean, focused completely on Sam.

Even given the dire circumstances, Dean thinks he should be offended at being so thoroughly ignored, but then he sees Sam’s expression: Sam doesn’t look frightened at all, he looks eager.

“You’re not saving anyone, Sam.” She smiles and her pupils go white.

“Lilith,” Sam says, and his mouth curves. There’s something predatory in his eyes.

“Now, Sam,” Ruby says.

“Traitorous bitch,” Lilith says, glaring. She focuses on Sam again. “You’re gonna have to pick a target.”

The hellhounds are back, howling murder. Dean turns and sees them: two hulking shadows with glowing red eyes snarling at him from the dining room door. He’s paralyzed with fear.

Grinning wide, Lilith winks at Dean. “Sic ‘em, boys!”

Sam steps between Dean and the hounds, hand stretched out. The hounds’ growls turn to whimpers as the floor beneath them glows like hot coals. Sam hasn’t moved a muscle, whole body tense. And Dean realizes, with startling clarity, that Sam’s doing this. That he’s the reason the hounds aren’t tearing Dean apart.

The floor beneath the hounds opens and swallows them down, then seals shut again, leaving a singed empty circle behind. Just like in the storage unit, weeks ago.

Sam lets his arm drop and takes a deep, steadying breath. He looks at Dean and says, "I'm not letting her take you."

Dean should be angry. He should be furious. But he’s alive. It’s two minutes after midnight, and he’s still alive.

“Nice job, Sam. Guess you added a lot more red meat to your diet,” Lilith says on a sneer. “But we’ve got plenty of other puppies.”

“You’re not gonna get a chance to call them.” Sam raises his arm again, pushing outwards, fingers spread wide. Lilith finds herself sliding along the wood floor, shoved back a foot, and then another. Smile gone, she grits her teeth, and stops. Her eyes flash white and she pushes back, but Sam’s stronger. Within seconds, she’s pinned against the wall. Sam takes a few steps forward and draws in a shaky, shallow breath. He’s straining to hold her.

Dean watches, and feels utterly powerless. He can’t do a thing to help Sam, wouldn’t even know where to start. Ruby gives him a nod that’s probably meant to be reassuring. It leaves him even more unsettled.

“Face it, Sam,” Lilith gloats, “you’re just not strong enough. You’re gonna tire out in a few seconds, and then Dean’s going to die, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Or exactly the right thing, in Dean’s case.

Sam takes one more step forward and pushes again. The air all around them fills with crackling energy. And Dean watches in horror as Sam’s eyes turn pitch black.

Lilith starts to glow. Her insides flash yellow, her skull lighting up beneath her skin like a perverse X-ray. Her furious expression melts into pain and she cries out as the light flashes more intensely. Her back arches, and the light explodes out of her eyes and mouth. Lilith’s body falls lifelessly to the floor.

Sam lowers his arm, his eyes a human shade of hazel again.

Dean swallows, and turns to Sam. “It’s after midnight,” he says, voice shaky. “I’m still here.”

Sam’s breathing hard, but his smile is wide and steady. “Yeah, you are. No more deal. No more hellhounds. You’re free.”

Still staring down at the body that only moments ago had housed Lilith, Ruby says, quietly, “The queen is dead.” She turns to Sam and drops to one knee, smiling up at him. “Long live the king.”

“What?” Sam huffs a laugh. “Not funny, Ruby.”

“It’s not a joke.” Ruby takes his hand. “You killed Hell’s queen. The throne’s yours. _Hell_ is yours, and it’s calling you home.”

“No, I don’t—“ Sam’s words cut off mid-sentence, and they both vanish.

Dean stands frozen, too overwhelmed to wholly process what happened, until the grandfather clock chimes. It’s one o’clock—an hour since his deal came due and he’s still alive. But Sam’s gone. Sam’s _gone._

#

He buries the bodies Lilith left behind...the family she murdered, the blond woman whose real name he’ll never know. He buries all of them, running on autopilot, running on fumes. Then he gets in his car and heads south.

#

Bobby won't help him, says Dean's a damned fool to even suggest it, but doesn't try to stop him either.

With the help of half a dozen dusty books, Dean patches together a summoning circle for the King of Hell. His gut's roiling as he finishes the markings on the floor of the old barn he’s picked. He wanted someplace out of the way, someplace where if it all went wrong, the chance of collateral damage would be low. So it's just him, in the big empty building that stinks of aged, water-logged wood.

He steps back from the circle, takes a swig from his flask and starts reading. "Toh an tah ar beh en..." The text beneath him shimmers with magic. The Hell-vision Dean gained when his deal came due never went away. If anything, it’s gotten stronger.

He finishes the last word, ignores the thundering of his heart in his ears, and waits.

And waits.

"Well that was a waste," he mutters, taking another, longer sip of cheap whiskey.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says from behind him, and Dean has to fight back the urge to jump. Sam's leaning against the side of the barn, nowhere near the circle. "You didn't have to do all this”—he waves at the etchings on the floor—“to get my attention."

"Didn't think they had cell service in Hell." Dean’s trying to keep his expression neutral. Sam doesn't need to—doesn't _deserve_ to—know what a fucking relief it is just to see him, even with all that power lighting him up from the inside; it’s still Sam, still his brother. Dean should be angry with him for what he did, and he had been, up until three seconds ago. Now there’s only this swell of joy that makes his heart feel two tons lighter.

"Sorry I didn't come by sooner," Sam says, pushing off the wall. He sticks his hands in his pockets. Not jeans, but slacks. Sam's wearing a suit, tailored to fit, dark maroon shirt under a black jacket.

"What's with the get up?" Dean asks, pointedly.

Sam smirks. "Trying to set a good example. Did some...restructuring."

"Good for you. But you’re done now. You don't belong down there."

"Yeah, I do," Sam says, the humor all but gone from his voice. "I'm their king."

“So quit,” Dean says, throwing up his hands. It’s not that complicated, and Sam was always the smart one. Or that’s what everybody else thought, anyway.

"It's not a position I can just resign from, Dean."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

"Explain it to me." Dean’s being admirably patient, in his opinion. And plus, he’s so happy just to see Sam again that he’s more than willing to listen to some more bullshit excuses.

"The only way I lose this job is if somebody kills me."

"Great."

"Nobody’s tried yet. But they will. Not everybody likes the changes I made. In fact, a lot of them are pissed."

Dean nods. Hasn't been much demon activity up here lately.

"There hasn't been any,” Sam says, reading Dean’s thoughts, just like that. “I called them all back, put them to work below."

"Then lock the door, and leave." Undaunted, Dean ignores the part where Sam read his mind. After everything else that’s happened, it’s the least of his worries.

"That's not how it works. Without me enforcing the new laws, they'd find a way out."

Dean's fists clench and he takes a frustrated breath before continuing. "So how long can you stay up here before they try to mutiny?"

"Not long. A few more minutes."

Dean nods, chewing on his lip as he considers. It doesn’t take him long to decide. “Got any job openings?”

Sam gives him a quizzical look. “You can’t be serious. After everything we went through to keep you _out_ of Hell?”

“Different setup now, you said it yourself. I’m guessing you can keep me away from the worst parts.”

Sam’s looking at him thoughtfully. But he isn’t convinced, not yet.

“I just—“ Dean doesn’t want to put it into words, but what’s the point of hiding it anymore? Sam can clearly read his thoughts anyway. “I don’t want to be here without you. So if the choice is stay up here, alone, or go down below with you, then I gotta go with plan B.”

Sam folds his arms across his chest. “I guess I could use an assistant.” He cocks an eyebrow.

“What? No way. How about Chief of Security?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sam says. He reaches a hand out to Dean and his eyes widen, just a bit.

Dean knows why. Sam’s seen what Dean sees—how he sees Sam: all that roiling light shining just beneath his skin. Not human anymore, not by a long shot, but still Sam, still loved. Dean takes his hand, and puts his trust in his brother.


End file.
